


heartbreak beat

by sultrygoblin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Eventual Smut, F/M, Slow Burn, stepfather/stepdaughter romantic relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27338416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sultrygoblin/pseuds/sultrygoblin
Summary: there’s a heartbreak beat, playing all night long down on my street. and it feels like love, got the radio on and it’s all that we need. there’s a heartbreak beat, and it feels like love
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 18
Kudos: 146





	1. and it feels like love

**Author's Note:**

> one chapter ahead on tumblr. follow there! same username

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i’ll let you set the pace ‘cause I’m not thinking straight. my head spinning around, i can’t see clear no more. what are you waiting for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> read the pairing and the warnings. reader is written as 18-20ish. no mother bashing in this story. this first chapter is pretty g rated in all honesty but it’ll steam up.

“Shoes!” his voice carries from his office to the foyer which is as far as it needs to.

He doesn’t have to be there to know that you’ve forgotten just as you have every day since before he ever met you. He smiles and your sigh, picturing you rolling your eyes and toeing off the oversized skate shoes he’d spent the last few years trying to convince you to replace. Once day your feet would get too soaked or they’d split down the middle and you would finally cave but he knew it wouldn’t be a moment sooner than you wanted. It was still his job. It would always be his job.

“We should go out and visit mom tomorrow,” you say, socked feet padding down the hall towards him, “It’s supposed to rain on Sunday and even if it is the anniversary-”

“She wouldn’t want us catching a cold,” he finishes, leaning back in his office chair when you took your standard stance, shoulder holding your weight against the doorframe, “I can’t believe it’s been this long.”

More time than the two years he’d gotten to spend with her. Your mom had been a beautiful woman, he saw more of her natural beauty and grace in you every day. That was where the similarities end. Your mother reminded him of the homemaker’s of his youth, not a hair out of place in her perfectly cut dresses. A clean house and something deliciously homemade for every meal. It had been everything he needed after his second wife had left him. But she wouldn’t let the image fool him. From their first date she made it clear what was going on. Her health was failing and there was no way to stop it, she couldn’t bear the idea of spending the last few years worrying about what would happen to you. They married quickly, an agreement made so that everything would be easier when it eventually happened. She made him promise that he would never let anything happen to you and he spent every day towards the end reassuring her he meant it. 

“I could try to make her favorite,” your shrug almost unseeable beneath your oversized shirt, “Won’t be as good.”

“Better than anything I could make,” he laughs, watching you lower your gaze to his desk as you pretended not to care about the compliment, “She wouldn’t want it to be her favorite though,” giving you a pointed look.

“If you’re promising me Indian food-”

“Which I am.”

“Then you have to pick the movie.”

It’s something that had started a month or two after your mother had been laid to rest. Neither of you were half the cook she was, no one could be. Even her first-time recipes tasted like she’d been cooking it her entire life, nothing could substitute the love and effort she put into everything. But you both had tried. Picking up some takeout from your mom’s favorite restaurant and watching her favorite movie when it had all felt like too much out of nowhere. He hadn’t known how else to comfort you than to emulate what he’d seen your mother. It had worked. Every few months something would give, one of you would hurt or some occasion would come up and you’d be curled up with food from a family favorite restaurant and a movie to match. 

“That’s the worst one!” he exclaimed, watching you laugh and push off the doorjamb, “At least I’ve got a day to figure it out.”

“Make a list. Isn’t that what you’re always telling me to do?” heading down the hall towards the stairs and no doubt your room.

He stares at the open door, eyes darting to the ceiling when the lightest sound of heavy rock music pounds against the ceiling, before sighing and spinning lightly in his chair. Something had changed in the last few months, he could tell. Ever since the last time you’d settled down for dinner and a movie. 

You had spent the summer’s day entertaining the neighborhood kids in exchange for a few underage drinks and cash. Which meant a lot of outdoor exploring and even more tree climbing, ending in a few falls. You were battered, bruised, and scratched up, making uncomfortable pouting noises as you alternated between ice packs and heating pads. About halfway through the movie, when you’d rearranged your legs for the umpteenth time, he had yanked them across his lap, if only to stop your fidgeting. It had taken until the movie was mostly over to realize his hands had slipped beneath the baggy edges of your pajama pants and were working hard at the tensed muscles with his fingertips. He might not have noticed if you hadn’t made a noise that sounded far too much like a moan and had yanked his attention. In the dark half-light, when you were trying your hardest to pretend like you were paying attention to the movie, he saw everything in you that wasn’t your mother. Not just the hoop in your nose or your grungy clothes but in the subtle curve of your neck, the shade of your eyes, the slope of your nose, things all your own. It’s the way you carry yourself, no one’s opinion of you matters to you. Only your own. He hadn’t been able to turn his eyes back to the movie, remembering how strong you’d been through it all. You’d been taking care of her long before she’d ever run across him, ever since you were young. Far too young. He starts to wonder things about you he never had before. He’s never heard you mention a crush, no girl or boy’s name that falls from your mouth with a smile that just can’t be helped. You don’t have a lot of friends, he knows why but it seems strange you don’t often hang out with the few you do have. You’d caught him looking when the credits began to roll.

You force a yawn while jerking your legs to the ground, “Kiddos really take it out of you, huh?” you’d laughed, climbing to your feet and keeping your eyes glued to the floor, “Night, old man,” your slipper clad feet scuffing on the wooden steps as you all but ran up the stairs.

It had all changed after that. There was a shyness there that hadn’t been there before, he finds you hanging around more, and he should mind but he doesn’t. Truthfully he likes the attention. It’s more than you being a young, beautiful woman who finds him attractive. It’s something about the kind of person you are. You drag him out of his shell, in a way three wives hadn’t managed to do. He rubs his hands along his face, trying to distract him from the mounting fact that he knows to be true. Something not quite right, something he can’t admit it to himself. Not aloud, not yet. He’s thankful for the ringing desk phone, snapping him out of the reverie that has been far more dangerous than any one before.

Most nights Steve is cooped up in his office, the work is never ending. It’s something that suits you just fine if only because it keeps him out of sight, if not out of mind. Not even a flight of stairs, two heavy oak door, and the pounding sound of your latest rock obsession seemed to stop your mind from wandering today. You try, you really do, sitting cross-legged on your bed with the laptop open in front of you, willing the Lit 1 essay to just appear. It won’t, you already know it but the longer you keep focused on this, the longer you can avoid falling into the black hole of the inevitable. You make it 30 minutes. You manage your name and a poorly written introduction before you shut the lid closed with a sigh and drop it on the bottom shelf of the nightstand he’d helped you build the first summer he’d spent with you and your mother. It always makes you smile because he actually let you help, teaching you how you had to start with a well thought out plan, ready with measurements. By the end he kept joking you’d done more than him, which you knew wasn’t true, but it was nice for someone to care about your own interests. He’d never tried to shove you in that box, not once.

You slam your feet on the floor, upping the volume on your speaker before beginning the pacing. It’s something you’ve always done, it’s become more and more often these last few weeks. It’s the only way you can think, muttering to yourself with the safety of heavy music and the knowledge that Steve was far too polite a man to eavesdrop. It was one of the things you loved about him. A terrifying confession you had made last year to yourself that you never dare speak of except in the hushed moments of your own wandering mind. It hadn’t been anything big, just another night you spent sleeping on the couch in his office because the emptiness of the upstairs had gotten into you. Nightmares weren’t completely uncommon when it came to you, but the bad one’s always seemed to wake you late in the evening and made you hyperaware of how large the empty house was. You had been curled up on your side, face buried in a throw pillow with the quilt you dragged down tangled around you. He’d woken you so gently, soft little pushes and a comforting smile when your eyes fluttered open.

“I’m headed upstairs,” he whispered, looking almost guilty to have woken you, “You can stay in my room if you want.”

You had slept pushed to the edge, over the blankets, quilt tucked underneath you, unable to escape the act of care he seemed to find incredibly important. You hadn’t slept a wink, finding yourself wishing that his arms would slither around you and he’d pull you close to his chest. The short strands of his salt and peppered beard pressing into your neck. Not some late night fantasy, you realize you want it. Despite the guilt, the shame, the knowledge that this had been the bed he had once shared with your mother isn’t able to stop you breathing in deeply the lingering smell of him against the pillow and committing it to memory. It was 6:30 in the morning, the light barely creeping through the window, birds happily chirping when you dared to look over your shoulder. Something about the pinks and oranges mixing with the shadows caused by the angles of his face, the feeling fell on you like a ton of bricks. It was like all the air had been sucked from the room, guilt pitted in your stomach while your heart swelled. It took everything in you not to tear from the room at a sprint, instead you moved carefully and quietly. Aware of every movement, every tired snort until you’d made it back to your room. You’d spent two hours sitting at the edge of the bed, watching the sunrise with your fingers fisted in the sheets, knuckles white. You’d slept many times on the office couch since then but never in that bed, never _with_ him.

You had sworn to keep it bottled up, battered deep down inside, because that was the right thing to do. It’s not like letting them loose would matter. What was more far-fetched than the fleeting idea that he _might_ return the feelings? Nothing, literally nothing. It wasn’t hard really, you’d had enough practice from the earlier years of having a crush on him, until it became the hardest thing. Every passing touch, compliment, you shouldn’t react the way you do but you can’t stop it. It feels like he notices, there’s no reason he should be able to but that little voice in the back of your head keeps repeating it. You were good at battering down.

Until you weren’t. When he’d yanked your feet into his lap and pressed his fingers into your flesh in ways you hadn’t even dared imagine. Your vision blurs, unable to keep track of colors flashing on the screen, goosebumps erupting over your skin. You keep your face straight as you can, keeping your mouth closed, keeping your harsh biting at the tip of your tongue from the world. He works passively at each aching muscle until you can’t help the moan that falls from your throat and you could feel his eyes. It hadn’t felt too out of the realm of possibility, until you’d been given the opportunity to talk yourself out of it. Stumbling embarrassingly to your bedroom to obsess over it for the rest of the night.

There’s a knock at your bedroom door, you turn, diving across your bed, “Come in!” you shout as you press the volume down, unable to stop yourself when the Devil himself opened the door.

“I’m craving pie,” he states matter of factly, looking at you with that playful look that you’d come to see more and more since that night, “Diner?”

You roll your eyes but grin back, crawling backwards to stand on the other side of your bed, “Never could say no to pie.”

“I thought that might be the case,” taking a step back into the hall and leaving the door open, gesturing down the hall and it felt heavier than a bit of late night dessert at the greasy restaurant your mother had never let you step foot in, “Sam says they got new special this week,” a place shared only between you and Steve.

With a slice of this weeks special in front of you and Steve’s signature apple pie with a scoop of ice cream, you sat across from each other in the weathered booth you always sat in. A young couple sits in the couple, sharing a milkshake and ice cream sweet kisses, your new hire waitress stands at the register snapping her gum and working a file at her nails. Late night pie trips are an ultra special occasion, they typically come with his own difficulties at work or your frustration in high school, and now college. You slice the tip off, fork scraping against the plate as you heft the bite into your mouth and chew slowly, watching him take a large bite with a hefty dollop from the scoop of vanilla that had begun to melt against the flaky crust. You take it all in because you’re trying your best to avoid his eyes without it seeming because you’re nervous of what he might see in them.

“You need new shoes,” him pointing the fork at you and the sternness with which he says something mundane makes you look up with a snicker and half smile that can’t be helped, “I knew that’d get you,” being met with soft eyes and that caring smile.

You shrug, “I like my shoes,” taking another small bite and considering before you decide that you should take the few opportunities for honesty available to you, “They’re the pair mom bought me before,” spinning the utensil in your grip, “Before she went to the hospital.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, hand completely covering the back of yours, squeezing it comfortingly, “It’s not forgetting her, it’s just change. That’s all.”

There’s that heaviness, it feels like you aren’t talking about shoes, “I know. I just worry,” the metal clanging against porcelain as you abandoned your slice of pie for the moment, “I don’t want it to feel like I’m forgetting her. But I don’t want to feel guilty for living, y’know?”

He nods, taking one more bite before dropping his own fork, “I do know. Losing your mom,” eyes darting along the chipped varnish of the table, “Even though I knew it was coming, it was worse than Peggy and Sharon combined. It’s the only time I’ve ever had to wonder how long is long enough,” his thumb strokes the top of your hand, it drags your gaze before he cocks his head to steal it back, “She’d want you to live your life.”

“I know,” nodding slowly, biting your bottom lips before weakly taking the fork and occupying your mind with another bite, chewing it slowly and thoroughly before swallowing hard, “Do you think I could sleep on the couch tonight?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” returning to his own dessert.

The only sounds that come from either of your are the squeaks of each cut and bite, small smacking noises from chewing, the jukebox plays quietly. Too quietly too cover up the giggling and kissing noises from the corner of the room or the sigh of the waitress abandoning the front to step out back for a smoke. At no point does his hand move, it makes your cheeks hot and your mind can’t help wandering in the way you hadn’t allowed it that night on the couch. He’s finished long before you, eyes glancing out to the almost carless parking lot lined by empty streets, a light autumn sprinkle beginning causing the glass to glitter. Eyes turning to watch you stack the two plates, both forks on top and tucking a few dollars from your front pocket under the plate. He had never been able to stop you from tipping, the demand to contribute a reminder of that kind heart you’d been taught but twinged with your own special brand of stubbornness. Any second your hand will slip from his, he knows he should let you, but he can’t help himself. It’s small, it won’t matter, at least that’s what he tells himself, keeping his hold on you as you both slipped out of the room and out the front door, the bell’s jingle falling on everyone’s deaf ears. 

He watches you look down at your joined hands as you make your way towards the car, rolling your lip between your teeth before turning ahead. It’s the kind of reaction like you had inside, the kind that makes him wonder if it’s only his mind these thoughts possess. He opens the passenger door like always, finally admitting that he had let it go on for far longer than it should have and releasing your hand and watching you drop it into your lap. He takes a deep breath as he steps around the back of the car towards the driver’s side door. He should leave it alone. But watching your pinky edge over the console, fingers inching like a spider over the leather, daring towards him but lacking the courage to take the final step. Because you had no idea of the thoughts that ran through his mind when he was too weak to control them. 

This time he laces his fingers with yours. Your heart speeds up and you’re thankful for the darkness the sudden rain brings with it, he can’t see your nervous smile or how you swallow hard. Turning the music up to cover your staccato breathing, you lean back in the seat, letting your fingers curl around his large hand best they could. It wasn’t like you hadn’t touched, a hug, an arm around the shoulder, but they had always been fleeting. This was something else, reminding you a lot of the way Peter had held your hand during your futile attempt to pretend your feelings for your step-father didn’t exist. A couple month affair that fizzled out as quickly as it had exploded into existence. 

“Are the nightmares back?” he asked, taking the next left and following the empty stretch of closed stores towards the edge of town.

You shook your head, “No,” reminding yourself he couldn’t see you, “I just,” taking a long deep breath, “It’s easier to sleep there sometimes,” shrugging as you slouched low in your seat.

It’s hard not to feel cocky, when you took away all the trappings you were a beautiful young woman who found comfort in him, who quite possibly wanted him. Every year there were more and more reminders of how many of them he’d already lived. The rain makes his arm ache, an old war injury that had made itself especially known in the last few years. Silver is becoming more and more familiar in his hair and beard, there’s no denying he’s aging well, but it’s just a reminder that he’s aging all the same. 

“Well, I don’t have too much work left tonight. Might want to save it for it another night,” it’s a lie, he always has a mountain of work to do but he can’t help testing the waters.

He dares a glance, you too distracted with trying to come up with some reason to drag him into the office chair, as selfish as it is. Your mouth opens and closes, your tongue darts out to wet your no doubt drying lips. He gives your hand a light squeeze, eyes back on the road so he could take a turn onto the back highway road that lead to your out of the way house on the hill.

“It’s just, uh,” hoping you come off as a different kind of embarrassed than you actually are, “Easier to sleep when you’re around… sometimes…” trailing off, pressing your elbow against the door, fist pressed to your temple in an effort to keep your gaze forward as you leaned into the curve as you climbed higher and the rain picked up.

“Sounds like it’s gonna be a pretty nasty night,” keeping his voice steady, knuckles white as his grip tightened on the steering wheel, “You could always stay in the bed again,” remembering the night he’d listened to your breathing, jaw clenched and hands fisted, managing to doze off and waking to an empty bed, “If the wind picks up anymore the power’ll probably go out.”

Wheels turning onto country road that lead towards you gravel driveway, the porch barely a twinkle in the distance, “I don’t want to bother you or anything…” remembering the last time, feeling your fingers tighten involuntarily at the terribly beautiful memory.

“You never have to worry about that,” turning onto the crunchy road and pulling to a stop in front of the house, turning the ignition and letting the entire night fall into silence, daring to look at you again and finding your gaze dropped to your lap, fingers twisting in an ever-growing hole in the thigh of your pants, “Whatever you need, that’s what I’m here for,” it’s wrought with that same heavy subtext from the diner.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” finally daring to look at him again and being met with that same comforting smile that made you feel safe just as it sent the butterflies in your stomach fluttering, “I’ll probably be crashed out before you even make it upstairs.”

He smiles with a nod, “Could be,” unbuckling his seatbelt and finally admitting he had to let go of your hand, “Ready to run?”

You smile, unbuckling quickly, throwing the door open and kicking it closed as you ran across the lawn, kicking up mud and happily letting the downpour soak your clothes. Something wrong couldn’t feel this real, this right. It was the only explanation for the way you clung to him, more in an effort to further wet him than to leech his warmth as he struggled a little bit dramatically with the door key. It was one of those moments that as it was happening it became unforgettable.

Pajamas are always a quick change for you, pulling off your jeans to replace them with a random pair of boxers, unhooking your bra and yanking it out through your sleeve. It gives you time to stare at the bed. The one you hadn’t truly slept in since you were 10, the last time you’d shared it with your mother had been many years before Steve had walked into their lives. Just after she’d told you about how sick she really was and the realization that should would never get better is why your father had left the year before. The room is entirely different before, it had gone through evolutions but since her passing the room had become entirely Steve. It reminds you of the cabin you’d gone camping in at the beginning of the summer. When he’d taught you how to fish and you’d shown off how well you’d learn to build a fire since the year before. The bed had been the same though, the last time and now it had become the last thing of your mother to leave this room. Traded for large flannel covered pillows, though you know the throw pillows that had once lay there are scattered about the house. The comforter is huge, covered in tartan and incredibly soft in your trembling fist. You pull the corner back, turning on the bedside lamp before flipping the overhead light off. Through the open door you can hear Steve finishing his phone call, climbing into the bed you hear the heavy sound of the office door closing, his feet hitting the bottom step when you pull the covers over yourself and roll on your side facing away from the open door. You focus on evening your breathing, reminding yourself that no matter what the hand holding meant whatever this was would be equally as innocent. 

“You can’t pretend to be asleep any better than your mother could,” he laughs, closing the door as he stepped into the room and crossed his arms over his chest, “You’ve got to breath through your nose.”

“Busted,” you whisper, rolling on your side, this time he looks halfway stern, “What?”

“Why are you pretending to be asleep?” the guilt morphs as you realize the other half of the look is disappointed, your stomach drops, “What aren’t you telling me, doll?” the blooming heat adds shame to the swirling vortex in your gut.

He’s never called you that before, it doesn’t escape either of you, “I don’t know,” you shake your head with a shrug, digging your fingers into the seam of the mattress, trying to focus on the taut sheet against your fingertips, “I don’t know what it is yet,” which is enough of a truth it doesn’t add more weight to your conscious.

He nods, slowly, stewing on your words, “Promise you’ll tell me when you do,” it’s not a question, it’s an order.

“Mhm,” you hum, forcing your thighs against their want to rub together in an attempt to relieve the sudden ache between them, “I tell you everything,” _liar._

 _“_ I don’t think you do,” this time his voice is amused, dropping his arms and stepping around the bed, “I hope one day you will,” forcing a smile from you that muffles all the voice in your brain telling you this has gone too far.

Distracted by his smile from beneath his perfectly trimmed facial hair, how his undershirt clung to his still well taken care of torso. Gym equipment in the garage had been the first sign he was moving in and you could still find him there in the middle of the day, every day. His pajama pants hang a little lose on his hips which is where you stop your gaze from their determined trip downward, rolling over on your side and reaching out to click off the lap as you listened to him settle himself in bed. 

You keep yourself pushed to the edge of the bed, just as before. You can feel the black cloud, darker than the storm brewing outside, threaten to take you over. Every anxiety, worry, every moment you might’ve read too much into was about to fill your mind and make sleep the last thing possible tonight. A clap of thunder and strike of lightening make you jump, the hall light darkens from underneath the door. You don’t realize it’s scooted your closer on the bed until a large hand begins to rub your back comfortingly. Up and down in small circles that make you close your eyes and hum. You should tell him you’re not scared, the sudden sound and accompanying blinding light had just broken through all the negativity buzzing in your brain and thrust you back into reality. One where he was moving just a bit closer to you.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” comes his quiet voice from the dark, full of regret, “I thought-”

“You didn’t,” taking a deep breath, knowing he can feel it stutter before rolling to face him in the dark, his hand hitting the bed with a light thud, “I promise.”

You’re better at hiding your emotions, he’s almost jealous, it isn’t like he wore his heart on his sleeve but you’re a vault when you try at it, “I’m confused too,” he tries instead, hoping opening himself up will get you to do the same, “It’s not like there’s a handbook for this,” lifting his hand to squeeze your bicep softly, “Just tell me what you’re thinking about, doll.”

There it is again, how his tongue rolls around each letter purposefully, “Why did you keep holding my hand?” even in the darkness you can tell he’s got that wide smile on his face, the one that shows his perfect teeth.

His hand slides over the hem of your sleeve at the elbow, over your wrist until he held i again, “Because you let me,” it has to be him, you’ve tried your best to admit it but you just can’t, it isn’t hard to figure why, “Because you wanted me to,” that same guilt hangs over his head when he dares to let himself get lost in the what if’s that seem far more like soon to be’s now.

You scoot a bit closer, your knee bumping against his leg, your other remaining tucked under the pillow, “Is that why you kept staring at me during the movie?” it lacks the teasing bite he’s come to know and love about you. You trying to understand if his feelings are anything like yours.

“No, that’s was something else,” lifting your hand and pressing it to his chest so he could rest his hand in the curve of your waist, “I mean it, I’m confused too,” thumb gathering the fabric of your shirt as he moved it back and forth, “Let’s just get through this, then we can worry about the next thing,” something he had never thought possible, always thinking ahead, calculating a plan, it had seemed impossible to stop and take things as they came, “That alright with you?”

Lightning flashes through the window, giving each of you a quick glimpse of the other’s face. Neither of you look entirely sure but it’s out there now, swirling in the air heavier than anything else has felt through out this entire ordeal. Your breath catches, he feels your entire body stiffen, relaxing only when you’ve pulled your hand from under the pillow. Your fingers brush along the soft hairs of his jaw, holding spreading them to hold the curve in your hand. 

“It’s softer than I imagined,” you whispered, his arm sliding between your neck and the mattress, curling ever so slightly so he could play with the ends of your hair.

He resists the urge to place a kiss on your wrist, instead letting his cheek settle comfortably in your small hand, his knee angled knee tucked just barely between both of yours. You comfortable and as much as you want to stay awake it’s becoming more and more impossible to hold your eyes open.

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispers when your lids finally close, “I’m not going anywhere.”


	2. my heart is set on you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> baby, you’re the highlight of my lowlife. take a shitty day and make it alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um so thank you all. really didn’t think this story would be so popular. warnings haven’t really kicked in yet. little shorter but next one will make up for it i think

You wake with your legs tangled in abandoned blankets and somehow warm, it’s only natural that you curl towards it. Not quite sure how you could be so warm when there was nothing to cover you. There’s a hum, low and not yours, and it brushes the cobwebs from your mind best that can be accomplished before your morning coffee. Everything that happened the night before comes rushing back and though you’re terrified to, you manage to crack your eyelids open and are greeted with Steve’s handsome, bright eyed and bushy tailed as only he seemed capable of. You’re not quite sure what to do, realizing now that it seemed your sleeping self had essentially blanketed yourself over him. You might’ve been more embarrassed if you weren’t so tired, choosing instead to bury your head between his neck and pillow as if somehow it would magically put you back to sleep. 

“Ya know, I didn’t think you’d be a big cuddler,” which splits your face into a grin that wobbles with drowsiness as you pull back to look at him with a shake of your head and an eye roll, “I am pleasantly surprised,” he follows up quickly, tightening his grip around your waist.

“Nice save,” your attempt at a scoff melting into a yawn, “What time is it?”

“Early,” he’s quick to answer, knowing the break offered you by it being Saturday would not extend to himself, especially after ignoring his work the night before, “I just,” he sighs, reminding himself of last night’s conversation, “I didn’t want to wake you,” holding your cheek in his hand, thumb brushing across your skin.

“This has to be a dream,” you say, grogginess making you a bit more pointed than he’s used to, “I’m gonna wake up with my face in my laptop-”

He chuckles, shaking his head, “That’s not gonna happen. Now me waking up asleep in my office chair…” his mock grimace drags the snicker he intended from you.

“Don’t remind yourself you have a job,” you whisper, lids fluttering closed as you yawned one more time, “It can’t find you up here.”

“Really now? And you’ve just been sitting on this intel?” he asked, humming when the tip of your nose brushes along his jaw in your attempt to make your head comfortable once again, “Five more minutes, alright?”

You’ve done this game with him many times, “Mhm,” it’s never just 5 more minutes.

You wake snuggled deep in the pillows, surrounded by blankets, and alone. You might’ve believed for a moment that it had all been a dream but your slowly open eyes taken in tartan pillowcases and matching comforter. With one eye mostly closed and the other shielded from the brightly shining morning sun you managed to focus on the digital clock just long enough to read the numbers. _10:04 am_. You sat up, arms stretching behind you with a yawn, knowing that by now he would be surrounded by work in his office. There was a part of you that was disappointed, but it was hushed for the moment by this morning’s memories as you climbed from the bed and followed drowsy choreography you knew well down to the kitchen. Passed his office door where you could hear is firm voice on the phone with some unknown caller, you can’t stop your smile, scuffing your socked feet along the floor to the Keurig. It’s a dance you know well and requires no real effort. A few minutes later you’re curled on the couch in the living room, clicking through till you’d found a show you’ve seen a thousand times to drone on in the background and began the tedious process of waking up. 

You’ve dozed off for the third or fourth time, still hoping the room temp coffee will wake you up and knowing it seems unlikely. You’re up too early on a weekend and whether you’d like to admit it or not, you’re sure Steve’s absence from the bed has effected your normally dead-like slumber somehow. This time though the precarious coffee is moved from your hand to the side table.

“You know it’s the weekend, right?” he laughs, looking down at you with a smile, “You could’ve kept sleeping.”

“No, no,” but you yawn all the same, “‘M up.”

“Sure you are,” pushing lightly on your shoulder till you fell back against the throw pillow, allowing him to drape the blanket over you, “I gotta run into town. Meet up with Buck for a work thing but I’ll bring back one of those fancy coffee’s you like, hopefully by then you’ll be halfway a person.”

You nod slowly, agreeing with him when there wasn’t any need for it, eyes already closed and breathing beginning to even. He can’t help himself, fingertips running along the curve of your cheek, the one that had been pressed against his skin just a few hours ago. It’s been a long time since Steve felt the urge to pout but if there ever was a time, wouldn’t this be it? Instead, he takes the cold mug, dumping it out in a sink before getting it in the dishwasher before grabbing his keys and heading out for his meeting. He thought the drive to his co-worker and best friend’s place would be easy, going over each step individually, but he’s thoughts kept spinning right back around to you. Why wouldn’t they?

No matter what he likes to think, he’d always been a romantic at heart and there was something about you that seemed to stoke that particular fire. Something about you made him feel like that little guy back in Brooklyn who felt lucky when a girl gave a smile, let alone a chance. All while you looked at him like he’d hung the moon and every single star right alongside it. Just holding you in his arms had felt like more than enough, not that he would have stopped you if you had made the leap to be daring. Another stark contrast between you and your mother, you thought about everything. He can only imagine how hard you had needed to convince yourself to push out half the words you had managed to last night but he’s thankful for every God above you had because he isn’t much different when it comes to playing love close to the chest. 

“You just gonna sit in there?” comes Bucky’s voice through the window, tattooed knuckles knocking against the glass, “That’s really not gonna work with the whole doing our job thing.”

Steve rolls his eyes, popping the door open while he grabs his satchel out of the passengers seat, “Just trying to remember the insane coffee order I’ve gotta pick up after,” no matter how hard he tries even his excuses won’t keep you far from his mind.

“Oh yeah,” slamming the door closed as they headed towards the front door, “Careful, hazelnut will ruin a man’s reputation at Clint’s real quick.”

“You speaking from experience?”

It’s easier. When there’s someone else, work to occupy his mind, vision covered with plans and figures. But you’re never gone, neither is the thought that he had really done you both a disservice not giving you a goodbye kiss before he left.

You hope to wake up to Steve’s smiling face and an oversized, sugary beverage you dared to call coffee directly in your face but it’s to your phone’s loud message tone that doesn’t get a whole lot of use these days. You don’t want to look, knowing it could honestly only be one of two people and both would be bad news in their own regard. You can’t pretend not to hear the noise and each time it chirps somehow it feels louder, more maybe they’re follow up messages. The worry there could be multiple is what sets you off with a groan. Tapping the screen through squinted eyes.

 _Late_. A one word text from Steve means work, that has never changed and probably never will. Followed five minutes later by; _really late_.

You bite your lower lip, reminding yourself over and over that last night and this morning hadn’t been some hyperrealistic dream. It had happened. There was no coming back from it. _You owe me. Big._ Tucking your phone in the elastic of your shorts you slid them on the floor and made your way towards round two of coffee. Only when you were stumbling up the stairs with a very large second mug was there that familiar chirp.

 _I’m terrified to ask_. You snickered, sipping the mug and dropping on the edge of your bed. Making sure your mug is stable on the nightstand, you grab your laptop, determined to at least finish this essay today. _Good thing I haven’t figure that part out then_.

You had expected to spend most of the day, and subsequent early evening, eagerly awaiting his texts and barely able to focus. But in surprising quickness your first draft was finished and sent off for peer review and you were working on your wireframe with the style tiles your group had sent you. Something about the closure kept your mind from wandering. There were still so many unanswered questions. First and foremost, what exactly was happening? But the fact _anything_ was happening and he seemed just as eager as you had been nervous would have to do for now. Even if it felt like time had stopped in your cabin style house dep in the woods, the actual world was still going down the highway. So even though your ears perked up when you heard what might’ve been a car door and were quick to check your phone at even the idea of a beep, you got through what you should’ve the night before and could’ve gotten a jump start on tomorrow. With a close of your laptop and the confirmation of your phone being completely clear of notifications, you hopped in the shower.

Somewhere it’s less easy to ignore the wandering thoughts of him. You try to keep your focus on the teal tiles, noting that you should talk to Steve about redoing the grout on it. You shake your head, working the body wash on the loofah into a lather as you listed everything you needed to get done tomorrow, reminding yourself to check the weather forecast so you could visit your mom, anything to keep your mind from him. It didn’t work. By the time you were working a fluffy towel along your skin you were focused entirely on him and the odd sense of emptiness left in his wake. He didn’t seem ashamed but something about him being gone all day - _for work!_ you continue to remind yourself- makes you wonder if maybe something had come crashing down in his own mind while every thought in yours seemed to lift you up. 

It’s easier to make a snack and sit in front of the TV, if your mind was forced back to him every other second they didn’t have to be negative. You think about his hand in yours, bodies pressed against each other in such an innocent but meaningful way, everything that you might’ve been able to have for a few more minutes if you had been able to keep your eyes open that morning. You mostly wonder what comes next, eyes glazed over as you stare at the television without really watching, there’s only forward. And forward meant one thing. Once again you shake your head, as if you could force the images out your brain but they’d been there long before any of this had happened and they weren’t about to disappear now.

Steve never imagined himself as the kind of guy who would hesitate to enter his own house, but his hand stutters at the door handle all the same. The day’s work had kept you off his mind but never far from it. He’d never let it slip, feeling almost guilty keeping something like this from his best friend but as of right now there really wasn’t anything to talk about. 

That was a boldfaced lie and he knew it. There was _everything_ to talk about he just couldn’t. Not yet, not when everything was still so new, still just enough outside of reality to ignore anything passed that half hidden turn down their driveway. The quiet reminder seemed to be all he needed to step inside, closing the door behind him and toeing off his shoes, listening to campy music of one of those grown up cartoon shows you loved he was still trying to wrap his head around. He drops his satchel by the office door, deciding he’d done enough work for the day and making his way back down the hall and into the living room.

“Please tell me you haven’t been doing this all day?” receiving a roll of your eyes with a stuck out tongue and shake of the head, “Good. It’d be a shame if I had to send you to your room to do homework.”

“You missed me!” you exclaim with accusingly, his shy smile as he collapsed on the sofa next to you was more than answer enough, “Did you write my name in little hearts in your planner?”

“Someone’s real confident all of a sudden,” he shoots back, wrapping his arm around your shoulders, his face melting into a full grin when you leaned back against his side, feet pulled up on the cushion, “Haven’t you seen this episode?”

You scoff, “I’ve seen them all. But I’m just watching my favorites tonight.”

“I should probably pay attention then,” his cheek laying against the crown of your head, “Gotta know all my girl’s favorites, right?”

It’s just like doll, it rolls off his tongue without a second thought. He feels your breath hitch, you just hope he hasn’t noticed the goosebumps that seem to have permanently taken up residence on your skin. Your hand pats his thigh, just above the knee.

“Then we’re gonna have to start this from the beginning,” grabbing the remote from between the couch cushions with one hand while the other refused to move.

“What have I gotten myself into?”

What, indeed?


	3. alone with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you’re the only thing i wanna touch. never knew that it could mean so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stuff happens guys. i repeat stuff is happening

It’s been a long time since you cooked together, but after a long day of work on both your parts when you could have been enjoying a Saturday together seems like just the occasion. The radio promises to play the “best of the 80s, 90s, and today” which was the closest agreement you could come to if you both wanted to keep your noses out of your phones. Steve was in charge of prep, keeping it going when you began to warm up cast iron pans for all manner of delicious foods. While you would never be as good a cook as your mother, you were still far better than himself and most people he had met. You don’t give him proper measurements, at least he doesn’t think “until it looks like enough” is one but what would he know? Only when the oven still has a few minutes to go and the vegetables are keeping warm with a lid and low heat does he get the chance to truly appreciate the site in front of him. Shorts a little shorter than normal in another huge t-shirt that he had actually bought you last Christmas, and had been far too proud of himself when you gushed that it was your favorite movie and had no idea he remembered.

“You’re staring,” your voice breaks his concentration and he smiles, shaking his head, “What?”

“Nothing,” he’s quick but it’s too quick. Your fists appear on your hips, looking at him like you didn’t believe him even a little, “I was just admiring is all,” you rolled your eyes but there’s that duck of the chin, the one that makes him bet your cheeks are on fire.

But now he can find out. So he does, stepping forward till he was right in front of you, holding your rightfully assumed fiery cheeks in his hands, “I forgot what I was going to say.”

“Well, we can both assume it was sarcastic,” his head is beginning to dip, he wishes his eyes hadn’t flicked away, he wants to take the moment back, “Timer’s up.”

“Wha-” the loud beeping breaks the moment, there are some things that will never change and his impeccable timing will be one of them, “You owe me.”

“I owe you two now, actually,” he’s quick to remind, almost sure it will end up more in his benefit than yours, “Alright. What next?”

You laugh, telling stories, and rehashing old memories over dinner. You tell him more about before he’d shown up, when your dad had been around and when he hadn’t. You don’t let yourself dwell on the bad, for more reasons than either of you can count but for tonight it’s because everything seems happy. Even the parts of the past that aren’t so bright. He tells you about Peggy, the first love of his life, and then Sharon, something real but not quite love, and then your mother. Until you ended up here, telling stories where the only main characters were you two. A life you had begun to build together without even realizing it. Somewhere along the way your plates empty and your holding hands much like you had at the Diner the night before but there’s no hesitance in it. It feels right.

“I’ll do dishes if you put away the leftovers,” he sighs, both of your stomach having finally settled enough for any kind of manual labor, “Then I thought a movie?”

“Is this a date?” you asked, planted in your seat as he took a step in front of you, rubbing the back of his neck with pink-tinted cheeks, “This is a date,” your voice firm.

“Just a little,” pulling you to your feet with your joined hands, “Problem with that?”

“Not at all,” shaking your head, smiling as he stepped around the island, “I just would’ve put on something nicer.”

He shook his head, looking over his shoulder with a shake of his head, “You look perfect.”

He doesn’t get a look at your face as you duck down to grab plastic tubs and try to cobble them together with mostly matching lids but he’s sure it’s the same one you give whenever he drops a compliment. Like you don’t believe him. He’s used to dwelling on the thought, instead, he focuses on the dishes and how little there were when you had made sure both of you tidied up along the way. He finished just a few minutes behind you, drying his hands thoroughly with a dishrag before tossing it on the counter. A bad habit he’s almost sure he picked up from you. You’re looking at him the way he knows he must look at you, you’re just not quite able to catch up the way he’s learned out to. Your gaze only focusing when he was directly in front of you.

“Got something on your mind, doll?” gripping your wrist softly, thumb caressing your pulse point.

It’s hard not to smile when your pulse picks up, “I just keep thinking this is a dream and any second it’ll all be over.”

“It’s not,” keeping his eyes on you when your hands trailed up his arms, his hands hanging loosely on your hips, but you still don’t look convinced, “What do I gotta do to make you believe me?”

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth nervously, you don’t trust your own voice but something in you says you have to try, “Kiss me.”

He grins, “That could work but,” he shook his head, “I don’t think it should be like that,” pulling you close as the crest fallen look he feared begun to take over your face, “It shouldn’t be because we’re scared.”

You exhale slowly, slipping your arms around his neck to hug him closer, “I know,” something he happily does, taking in the smell of your shampoo as he dropped his lips to the top of your head, “We should watch that movie.”

“How about something scary?” pretending he can’t feel you trying to keep your breath even, “I know those are your favorite,” scared that you’re right.

If this was anyone’s dream though, Steve was sure it would be his.

It’s one of those things about you he likes, you enjoy a 70′s slasher just as much as you enjoyed the newer stuff. But it still surprises him every time you pick one out. If only because he thinks this might be the time you prove him wrong. You never do. Halloween is one of the few horror movies he finds himself enjoying rather than just tolerating for your sake. Or it might be because it’s the first thing you watch where there truly isn’t any pretense. You’re pressed up against him, his arm on the back of the couch behind your shoulders. Sometimes his thumb reaches out to stroke the curve of your neck exposed just barely by the collar of your shirt. His other hand is perfectly content to encompass yours, back of your hand warm against his thigh even through the thick denim of his jeans. He can run his nose along your temple, pull you tighter against him, whatever he wants and you seem more than happy to let him. In fact, you seem overjoyed. No matter how hard you try to make it seem like you’re paying complete attention to the movie.

“How many times have you seen this?” he asks, your legs curling up on the couch, knee bumping his knee.

“I have no idea,” you confess with a laugh, dragging your gaze from the screen to his face, “I just figured…” shrugging lightly as if somehow that finished your sentence.

It did in a way, “Oh I know what you figured,” snickering along with you at the not so hidden subtext.

“It’s not my fault I’m full of hormones!” you laugh, turning your eyes back to the screen with faux indignation.

He shook his head, “I suppose it’s not.”

You keep your eyes on the screen but your attention had never been on the movie. You’re busy locking away every moment in your memory, rolling his words over and over in your mind. You hadn’t been scared, in fact, you’d never been more sure that this world was reality than when he asked how he could prove it instead of just doing it. Which meant he was scared, he was worried, and you can’t bring yourself to push farther knowing that. He wouldn’t ever ask you to give something you couldn’t, you make a quiet promise to yourself to do the same. Even if it kills you.

It almost surprises him you don’t try to make a move. Almost because he knows you’re thinking over the words he said. It kills him that he can’t be totally reckless but he’s the _grown_ grown up. He has to think and consider, worry. It doesn’t escape his notice how hypocritical that is. Here he’d been trying to comfort you while doing the exact same thing he’d told you not to do; wondering when he’d wake up. Not to mention he owes you. He doesn’t waste a second more than he already has, barely having to turn his head and lean to capture your lips with his. He regrets not having kissed you in the kitchen. A burnt dinner is a small price to pay for the electricity shooting up and down his spine with the soft way you press back or how your eyelashes flutter against his cheeks before finally closing. He doesn’t regret pulling you closer, till your backside is seated firmly in his lap.

Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, lost in the soft scruffiness against your cheeks, his large hand seems to hold the entire back of your head, and he never pushes further. Just the barest of open-mouthed kisses that make butterflies explode in your stomach and fire dance along your skin. It’s this, just this and nothing more. There’s a tenderness to it all that you’re glad you feel for the first time with him, you doubt you would’ve been capable of returning it with anyone else. Your fingers pressed gently into the thermal against his ribs, lost in the way he manages to completely surround you. Every sense is a flashing neon sign that says one thing; Steve.

The credits roll and the TV decides to play the next one, not that either of you are paying attention. He can’t remember the last time he made out on the couch like a teenager and you’re absolutely sure you’ve never done this. He just wants to kiss you, hold you, run his hand flat along the curve of your spine, squeeze your thigh just above your knee comfortingly. There’s something pure about it all, a reminder that either of you can still go back if you want. Neither of you do. You sit there for what feels like hours, innocent touches pressed against the other until your jaw starts to ache and your face just a bit raw from the press of his beard against the sensitive flesh. But no matter how hard you try, neither of you seem capable of pulling away. Whenever one of you manages to start, because it’s always unclear which of you it is, someone falls right back in or pulls the other back in. It’s much easier to admit you just don’t want to and continue on.

Until the familiar ringtone of his cell phone sounds. You barely hold back your growl of disappointment as you pull away, his pointed look making it clear that he still knows it was on it’s way and you can only huff and fall back against him when he drags it from the side table. Thumb sliding across the screen, he holds sit to his ear as you mute the volume.   
“I was literally just there, Buck,” a forced laugh in his voice because he’s taking in your kiss swollen lips and how absolutely indignant you look at having been interrupted, “Monday are you serious?” you make a quiet hmph that almost makes him laugh, “I can do Tuesday but I can’t by Monday it’s just not gonna happen,” there’s a longer silence than you expect while he nods and mhms. You go to climb out of his lap, there’s no telling how long the conversation would be but his grip on your tightened, stopping all further thoughts of moving, “Well then he can fight with me about it but it’s not happening, alright? I know it’s not your fault but-” he smiles and laughs, “Alright, I’ll talk to you soon,” slipping the phone from his ear and back on the table, “And where were you wandering off to?”

“Your work calls exist in a time zone of their own,” you answer, which he has no argument for because it’s the truth, “If you need to work-”

“Tomorrow’s important, for both of us,” he’s quick to interrupt, rubbing his hand comfortingly along your back, “Not to mention I still owe you.”

“Two?” you asked holding up the fingers and pouting just a bit when he pushed one down, “You’re seriously gonna penalize me for the kissing.”

“I don’t make the rules,” he says, unable to stop his small laugh when you rolled your eyes.

“Clearly you do,” shaking your head with an overdramatic sigh but even if you try to pretend they’re not, the edges of your lips begin to curl upward, “Thanks.”

He shook his head, pressing a short and sweet peck to your lips, “You don’t have to thank me, doll,” rubbing the tip of his nose along yours, “Alright?” You don’t trust your voice, humming a _mhm_ with the shortest, smallest nod, “Should we pick up where we left off?”

You don’t waste the chance.


	4. you're mine now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you are my kind, classic mind and you look so fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know what you want to see

Once his phone had buzzed for what you were sure was the hundredth time, you patted his chest and wished him goodnight. Something that surprised the both of you, if only because you had taken the lead and managed to drag yourself out of his lap. Even when the only thing you wanted to do was melt back into him. He made every _single_ nerve ending explode, the longer you’d kissed the harder it had been to keep your thighs from rubbing together. Which was the sure sign that you had to bring it to a close. Text were a much easier explanation. All of this was already complicated, you didn’t need to throw listening to said hormones into the mix. 

Steve hadn’t wanted you to go. He’d felt half his age, fighting to hold just the barest tips of your fingers while he tried to come up with some excuse that would defeat the thought he knew was steeped in logic. He hadn’t managed it, instead already missing how your lips felt pressed against his instead of that shy smile as your made your way towards the stairs and hurriedly up them. At one point you almost fall, barely catching yourself, and he can’t help his loud guffaw at your squeak and almost immediate disappearance. He sighed, shaking his head with a smile before swiping his thumb across the screen.

_So who is she?_

He should’ve expected it, the man was more than his partner, more than his friend. Bucky was a brother and he’d been with him through it all, he knew when he was preoccupied. When imagining this moment his heart had stopped and he’d felt guilty, the real world beginning to seep in at the edges to remind him that this was wrong. None of that happened. His smile never slipped, exhaling slowly as he climbed to his feet and pondered how best to word his answer. Even though he knew where his words would inevitably end up.

 _It’s complicated_.

Stepping into his office and flipping on the light. _Isn’t it always with you?_ Before it became a series of emails and attachments his went through as he waited for his computer to start up. Just as easily has he had switched on the light, he’d switched off anything that wasn’t work. For now, at least.

It feels strange to go to bed on your own, but it’s the right thing to do. No matter how innocently your intent would have been, you were full of hormones after all. It’s best he’s downstairs, while you sat on the edge of your bed, music quiet and melodious as you bit the tip of your thumb trying to decide if you should ignore Peter’s name now emblazoned on your screen. You’re sure whatever the words are they are innocent but you feel guilty all the same. Maybe if you had ever talked about him. Or mentioned him at all.

 _Did you do your essay_? 

You rolled your eyes, drag and dropping the file into an e-mail and shooting it off to whatever it was he was going to do with the information. _Aren’t you supposed to be smart?_

 _Thanks_. 

_No problem._

You go to drop your phone when it buzzes again. These words would not be like their earlier counterparts. You shouldn’t. What you _should_ do is turn off the lamp, get into bed, and try to get some sleep while playing the night over and over again in your mind. 

_I miss you_.

“Oh fuck you,” you sigh, dropping it face down on your nightstand and following through on the plan.

It was hard at first. That angry, guilty pit in your stomach trying its best to ruin the moment. You hadn’t done anything. Why were you forced to feel bad for a stupid thing that an idiot boy said? It almost works. You should’ve just told him when it was happening, at dinner, any time. You _should_ tell him. You would. You settled on it. As if somehow that would alleviate the guilt you had created out of nowhere.

Your phone buzzes again.

At least you’re able to quell the urge, rolling on your side and staring out the window at the inky black sky, dotted with twinkling stars. You loved it out here, you hadn’t thought you would when you’d first stepped foot in the house. But somewhere between the bedroom built just for you and the perfect stillness of the mountainside you’d fallen in love with it. You couldn’t imagine living in the city again. Well, perhaps you could if it were Steve. Maybe it felt more like you couldn’t imagine living anywhere without him now. 

It had _never_ felt like that with Peter. 

You’d comfortably imagined your life without him many times. It had been unfair to him. But he had been you trying so desperately to prove to yourself that what you had felt for your stepfather was something fleeting. Some twisting of the deep connection left in the wake of your mother’s death. And when you had to finally admit that you were wrong, that there was something here that you had to understand, you had let him go. As nicely as one can do something like that. You couldn’t explain to him how unfair it truly was. So you did your best allude to it. Letting subtext and implication do the work for you until after some time you had returned to the shaky ground of friendship you had vaguely started on. 

Then there would be times like this. Where he tried to toe the line, as if you just needed sometime and you would pick up where those few, short months left off. 

But he’d never just kissed you until the entire universe seemed to course through your bloodstream. It makes you wonder what it _could_ be like. This secret comes with no guilt and happily overrides everything else in your mind. And while you can’t bring yourself to touch yourself, knowing it would pale in comparison and somehow ruin the moment, you let the tips of your fingers travel along the insides of your arms, the curve of your hips, the jut of your collarbone, everywhere that made you shiver when Steve had done the same to you. 

A part of you wonders if you should just say fuck it and go downstairs. Start the entire process anew and make a bad decision. You lay there, letting the reel run over and over in your mind.

_At least tell me something about her_. 

A natural lull to the night that could be spent relaxing, even talking himself into get some sleep, was interrupted by his friend’s need to know each and every thing going on in his life. Steve knows he should just ignore it, if he lets the pestering win now it will never stop. But there’s something inside him that feels the need to brag. He knows it, he pretends that a stand-up guy like him doesn’t have that little bit of good ol’ fashion smugness in him. But he does. 

_She’s a little younger_. 

Alone, in here, he can admit to himself that it has something to do with it. There’re feelings there. He wouldn’t be taking the risk if there wasn’t something tangible between the two of you. But he couldn’t deny the draw of someone your age fawning over him. Not that he didn’t take care of himself, with your help if he were being completely honest, but he’d known himself his entire life. Every wrinkle, every silvered hair, he sees it even when others can’t. The fact all of those things seem to draw you to him is something intoxicating he would be an idiot to try to deny the existence of. Every part of you is so soft, supple, bending around him without thoughts of aching muscles and tweaked joints. 

_Welcome to the club_.

Steve rolls his eyes, the clear decider that it is time to go to bed. Letting the bit of reality desperate to sink its claws in ebb away, thinking about how warm you had been against him, how eagerly you had kissed him. Every few kisses dotted with the barest tug of his lower lip between your teeth, as if signing your name so from here onto forever it would make him think of you. Even now, when he subconsciously rolled it between his own pearly whites, all that flashes are images of you. Hair between his fingers, the heat of your cheeks against his skin, he shakes his head, hitting the armrests of his office chair before climbing to his feet. 

It had been smart of you to walk away. He thinks it’s much smarter that you;re standing on the other side of the door when he opens it and flips off the light. Whatever you had planned to say seems to disappear. Nervousness going with it when you drop the tip of your thumb from your mouth, blinking as if somehow that would bring it all rushing back. It doesn’t. Slipping away just like the witty comment he would’ve had here before. _Before_.

The thud of your back hitting the wall is muffled by his groan when you leave that signature before he’s even had a chance to trace your lips with the tip of his tongue. His hand dips beneath the thick fabric of your t-shirt. You gasp when his hand presses into the small of your back, making your spine tingle and shooting shivers across your body. There’s the urge to twist your fingers in the thermal as you had all night but is touch makes you float. There isn’t much thought left in you and you’re desperate for more of his skin. Fingers pressed to the side of his neck as you strained on your toes, arm dipping beneath the collar, feeling the sinewy muscles of his back tense and the goosebumps that appear when they seem to seize. He grips your hip, you’d abandoned or forgotten your short, he can feel your skin over the thin elastic around your hips, fingers pressed against the taut fabric as he gripped you tight. 

You want more, both of you. Which is why he forces himself away, panting in the dark hallway and staring you down. Lips swollen, gasping for breath, and leaning all your weight against the wood. But you keep his gaze. Determined to at least act more confident than you felt. He’s looking at you like you’re all his favorite bad choices and it takes everything in you to not reignite. Even as your thighs scraped together and you had to fight to calm your breathing.

“Now if I bring you to bed, you promise to be good?” he asks, somewhere between serious and joking, inflection unreadable.

You want to joke, “Promise,” but all you want is to be close to him again, “Really.”

Behave is a word that has a lot of definitions, depending on who you ask. Something he found himself unwittingly counting on when you held his hand tightly, following behind him as you made your way up the stairs, past your cracked door and back into that room. It had been ridiculous for either of you to think you wouldn’t have ended up here tonight. You briefly wonder if you’ll ever sleep in your own bed again, focusing on moving your body beneath the blankets and ignoring your vibrating nerves. He has to be doing something similar. He can’t kiss you like that and be completely fine after. There are some things no human can learn, regardless of how much time they’ve spent on this Earth. 

It feels so much like that first night you ever shared the bed and is the complete opposite. You don’t reach out for fear of rejection but because you’re not sure you can keep your promise, if _he_ can keep you promise. The air is charged. It isn’t the heavy rain that will hit tonight that hangs heavy. It’s whatever had come tumbling out when you dared to open the door. You’re distracted by all these thoughts and more you tried to push down for fear what they might do to the iota of self-control you do have when you gasp at your fingers gripping the long sleeve of his shirt.

“You promised to behave,” there’s a warning to his voice, as if trying to replicate what it was you were.

 _Control_ , “It feels strange. Not touching you,” swallowing hard and exhaling a shaky breath, “I meant it.”

He nods, you watch the curves of his face in the low light, hair hissing along the pillowcase, “Good thing one of us did.”

Control is always a lie.


	5. you keeping me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i’ve never felt so alive ‘cause everything i did was wrong. now everything i do feels right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well have fun with this! let me know what you thought

You wake slowly to soft kisses along your temples, the curve of your cheek, the bridge of your nose, humming when they move across your closed eyelids. You don’t have to open them to know he’s smiling. He lifts one of your tired arms, dropping it over his neck, hovering over you as he continued his adventure. Avoiding your lips to drop a large kiss on your chin before following the lines of each jaw. Your thighs squeeze together, rubbing unconsciously at the heat that pools between them. The cobwebs of sleep keep logic far at bay. It’s his lips on your skin, his hand dipping beneath you scrunched up shirt and pressing into your waist. The next hum that rises in your throat is heavy with with your slowly mounting arousal. 

“ _Good morning_ ,” he whispers, tip of his nose brushing against your own, his lips so close to yours.

Your sleep heavy body can only receive, “ _G’morning_ ,” not take.

Which seems to be exactly the point. His thumb stroking the ridge of your lowest rib, when he finally closed the gap so softly you briefly wondered if he had simply been teasing you with the motion. A little more pressure brings the familiar feeling of his whiskers against your skin, you want more, but you’re entirely unprepared to ask for it. You simply revel when you’re allowed to deepen it with a tug of your teeth and a slip of the tongue, happily keeping his quiet hum all for yourself. Slower than you ever imagined possible his hand moves up your side, briefly caging your ribs before climbing even higher. You can’t help your gasp when the barest tips of his fingers brush against the heavy underside of your breast. 

“You made me promise to behave,” your voice still heavy with sleep and laden with anticipation.

He smiles against the curve of your jaw, “You are,” pressing a soft kiss to the underside, another to the curve of your neck, “But _I_ didn’t promise,” his large hand cups you gently, palm pressing against your slowly hardening nipple.

Your breath catches and he kisses you. Harder than you’ve experienced so far. The hair on his chin burns against yours, sure to leave it raw and with tangible memories of this morning. His tongue slipping between your lips as his grip tightened, your knee crooks against his hip, fingers dipping beneath the color of his thermal. You can feel him grin when his strong thigh uses your own tired movements against you, planting itself firmly between your thighs and tight against your panties. The moan it draws surprise the both of you, palm dropping he brushes his thumb along your straining nipple. Chasing your moan with a low whine. You want more but you don’t know what more is. You dip your other hand beneath his shirt, his fingers plucking at your nerves when your hands began to explore the warm expanse of flesh. He pulls his mouth from you, groaning when you grind yourself down against him when he forces that rush through you, nails pressing into him briefly, nuzzling the curve of your jaw with his noise. Lips so close to your ear you can hear his quietest breath. 

“Feel good, baby girl?” his whisper harsh, pressing firmly against you before rocking ever so softly.

The rolling of your nipple, the scratch of his cheeks against your skin, “ _Mhm_ ,” fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

“If I’d known this was all it took to stop your smart mouth I would’ve started sooner,” it might’ve been a joke, if his tone wasn’t so heavy, melting with his movements against you, your spine begins to curve towards him.

It forces his thigh deeper, pushing cotton panties and his thin pajama pants between your damp lips, “ _Fu-uck_ ,” a rolling groan that makes him hum.

The violent sound of his phone vibrating on the nightstand rips through the moment. You groan, this time in disappointment. Seeking out his lips again as if you could make him deaf to the sound. If anyone could, it would be you. Looking at you beneath him, lips swollen, wet heat soaking into his skin, desperate for him. His touch. His kiss. If he had his way he would let you drag him back into this moment. He rolls from his position over you, his sudden disappearance making you shiver with the mixture of cold and unfulfilled desire.

“It’s Buck,” he says finally getting a grip on the dancing piece of plastic.

You huff, “I’ll kill him,” rubbing your face and sitting up quickly, “I’m gonna wreck his bike and _then_ I’m gonna kill him.”

He laughs harder than he expects to, it’s still tinting his voice when he answers, “ _H-h-hello_.”

Padding into your bedroom, you stripped and redressed quickly. The over sized jeans and stolen flannel not quite as comfortable as the fuzzy socks you yanked on. You grab your phone, seeing notifications but not really looking at them as you make your way down the stairs. You try not to focus on Steve’s voice and how it draws you towards the door, forcing your feet carefully down each polished step. You set about making coffee, grumbling and trying to keep your thighs from rubbing together before huffing and leaning back against the counter. You finally slip your thumb across the screen when the water began to warm in the maker.

What day it was hit you like a ton of bricks when you saw the sheer number of _thinking of you_ s. Wanda and Piotr are especially kind, just a text about a gift card waiting for you at Clint’s. The rest are just comments on auto posted memories, the odd family member, and _Peter_. You lift you eyes skyward, you can’t hear his voice from this distance but you haven’t heard any of the tell-tale signs of him heading towards the main floor. No floorboards creaking or heavy footsteps. 

_Are you gonna need a ride?_

You growl under you breath, shoving the phone in your back pocket and focusing instead on the slowly dripping elixir of life. It’s Sunday. It’s supposed to rain but supposed tos aren’t something you’ve ever put a whole lot of stock in. It leaves glittering droplets across the woodland, looking magical in the few rays of sunlight that managed to force their way through the grey clouds. The kind of day that was her favorite because it meant rain _and_ shine. Not or. Every one just wants to be nice, even Peter. _Especially him_. You couldn’t blame them but every year was the same and you couldn’t understand why all these people you cared about just wouldn’t let you get over it. 

Carrying your coffee in one hand, an half eaten apple in the other, you made your back to your room. Carefully arranging everything you pulled out your laptop, prepared to distract your self with school work. At least there you could be distracted. No mom or Steve. No guilt. No complete confusion of how everything had ended up this way. It’s just reading about the romantic art movement, predominantly in France as your group had taken a divide and conquer approach to the whole assignment. The morning flies by, as do your assignments, before you’re closing the lid and looking over at your open door. 

It lets you think. About this morning and everything you felt. But that guilt- it’s a feeling you’re becoming far too familiar with. You two should go to the cemetery. Save this all for another day that isn’t already so confusing. A part of you even considers accepting the kind offer that you’re almost sure you don’t deserve. It’s enough, that little kick in the pants you needed to do whatever entirely illogical thing you were about to next. It was better than the alternative. 

You find him in the kitchen, sipping microwaved coffee and scrolling through his phone at an impossible speed. But it’s like he knows you’re there. Stopping and setting his cup down gently, phone slipping into his front pocket as he turns to you looking like that boy wonder you’d spent far too much time googling. So unlike the man you’d woken up this morning with, it’s another one of those shifts. The unavoidable kind that reminds you both that no matter how far in the middle of no where you lived, playing house would always be that. _Playing_. There was still a whole big bad world out there. It came with strings, questions, and, most of all, insanely confusing emotions. 

“I was just about to come get you,” it reminds you very much of before, except now you can see him wanting to reach out and denying himself, “See when you wanted to go. Apologize…”

You shook your head, “You don’t have to apologize,” surprised to feel a small smile twisting the corner of your cheeks, “I liked it,” tugging the shirts sleeves tight over your fingers, “I just feel bad that I liked it,” voice slowing as you realized the words didn’t sound quite how you meant them, “Well, I mean-”

“I know what you mean,” rubbing the back of his neck with his own small smile, “I didn’t think about it. If I had,” he shook his head, sighing, “I was just starting to get concerned is all. You were pretty _focused_.”

An observation that seem almost laughable coming from him. Almost because his implication had been correct. You hated this, hated that this was happening, now, today. _So soon_. 

“You know Peter? Tony’s nephew?” leaned against the door frame, watching him thinking about it for a minute before nodding, though he didn’t seem quite sure with himself, “We had this, I dunno, like fling or whatever. It was after mom died, ya know?” you hate how understanding he looks, like he knows exactly what’s going to come out of your mouth but still feels compelled to make sure that you are the one who says it, “I had all these feelings and- well, anyways it didn’t work out. Which was fine. Everything was fine,” your phone has never felt heavier, neither have your shoulders or your gut, “He’s been texting me a lot recently. I just-” shaking your head and taking a long, deep breath, “I thought you should know.”

“Seeing you nervous is so surreal,” he laughs, smile seeming to brighten the whole room, “I honestly don’t think I’ll ever get used to it,” he took a step closer to you and then another, ignoring that little voice that tells him he shouldn’t, he pinches the front of your flannel between his thumb and curled index finger, “I wanna see where this goes. But this is going to be part of it,” tugging you close, “We both know this is…” raising his brows and searching for the perfect word.

English is so inexact, “Strange. It’s strange,” calling it for exactly what it was, twisting the plaid tighter and tighter in your fingers, “Which makes difficult.”

He nodded slowly, humming in agreement, “Just for a little while.”

It has too many alternative meanings and makes your head spin, for right now you use it to explain away your guilt. The realization that this, just like the grief, would pass. You bat his bicep lightly on each side with your fists, feeling your smile grown when he chuckled.

“See?” tripping you up when he yanked a bit harsher and caught you around the waist, “Nothing bad happened,” dropping his chin on your shoulder and holding you tight against him, “Everyone’s got a past, doll.”

“I know,” slipping your arms around his neck, breathing in the clean woodsy scent that could only be his, “I just didn’t think it’d start showing up so soon.”

You take full advantage of the gift card left to you by your schoolmates, chatting with Natasha about your studies and reminding you not to keep yourself cooped up while handing over a chocolate croissant. Steve had put himself in charge of picking out the flowers, something he was still doing when you stepped up beside him, straw planted firmly between your lips and drinking the giant concoction of sweetness greedily. He is particularly focused and it honestly takes you a for extra seconds to understand why.

“Sweat peas,” you say, turning your attention to Ms. Foster, “And hydrangeas, please,” spinning on your heels and heading back towards the car, it seemed like the best course of action. 

“Well, hey there stranger,” it hadn’t been.

You plaster a smile on your face, the one you’d gotten so great at the last few years that sometimes you can even fool yourself with it, “Oh, Peter. Hey,” taking a long sip of your drink while darting your eyes towards the flower stand where Darcy was still putting together the bouquet, “Sorry I didn’t-”

“No, no,” he furrowed his brows, shaking his head while shoving his hands nervously in his jacket pockets, “I should be sorry. I was just so in my own head, y’know?”

“Yeah, I get that,” nodding slowly, “How about we just not worry about it?”

“I’d like that,” seeing almost taken aback by your willingness to simply forgive and forget, “I just-” he shook his head, “Never mind,” scuffing the sole of his shoe along the concrete, “You guys going up to see your mom?” 

“Yeah,” happy to see the flowers appearing in his arms on your next recon to your left and knowing there was an end in sight to this, “Probably do dinner after or something. I finished my slides up today so…”

“Well,” both of you very aware of you stepfather coming to slow beside you, “If you ever need a ride up there, let me know.”

You could hear the lock pop behind you, it took barely a second for your fingers to grip awkwardly around the handle, “Thanks,” listening to Steve’s heavy steps round the car while you slipped into the passenger seat, “I’ll see you around Peter.”

“Definitely,” he spoke over the slamming door, continuing his way slowly down the sidewalk, like you wish he had done in the first place. 

“You okay?” he asks when you’ve both buckled and pulled out into the street, “That looked… awkward.”

“It’ll stop. Eventually,” sighed, glancing over at him, “I think.”

“It will,” he did his best to comfort you with the two words, “One way or another.”


	6. candle on the water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i keep going over the things that could come from me feeling this way. i don't wanna play these emotional games. only you bring me closer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long guys. last week was...a lot. so thank you for your patience. i feel bad torturing you (i’m sorry it’s short!) like this so look out for the next one.

You’d spent longer than you had in a while, standing in front of the ornate gravestone. Her name written in that beautiful swooped typeface. _Loving mother and wife_. Neither of you talk, both sets of hands buried deep in their respective pockets as the wind began the pickup and the evening’s chill begun to set in. More than a few times Steve opes his mouth, prepared to ask if you’re ready to go, but he snaps his jaw shut and stand there beside you in silence. It’s been a long time since your mind had raced this fast, for the last year it seemed your mind had been virtually empty standing here. Until you started to wonder if the stone had lost all of it’s power, that was clearly not the case. You were so full of swirling questions and confusion. Things that seemed to now stretch beyond just the man beside you, things you hadn’t even begun to consider until you’d stepped out of the car. 

“Come on,” he breaks the silence with a soft whisper and his arm around your shoulder, “She’d kill me if I let you get sick,” you snicker, nodding slowly, fisting your hands in the depths of your pockets, “You wanna talk about it?”

“I don’t think I’m ready,” you answer quickly, “I’m still not quite sure I was thinking about.”

It’s his turn to snicker, “It’s good to know some things never change,” turning you both and beginning the long walk back to the car, “I know we normally go somewhere fancy and all but I figure comfort over anything else tonight.”

“You just want a big, greasy tuna melt,” you shoot back quickly, elbowing him lightly, feeling the gloom beginning to lift even as the sky darkened, “You can lie to yourself and you can lie to God but you can’t lie to me.”

“Wouldn’t even try.”

He opens the passenger’s side door for you, doing what could only be described as a visual recon of the area around you as you get yourself situated and buckled up. You’re just about to make fun of him, well, attempting to make fun of him. You’re sure it would’ve been more of a laugh while asking him what he was doing if you had been given the chance. Which you had surely had not.

He seems intent on pushing you both outside your comfort zone, something Steve still doesn’t quite understand himself. Just that it’s been so long since this morning, since he felt your lips against his and he needs it. It’s something he doesn’t understand, doesn’t quite grasp, but he’s sure he will in time. For right now he’s happy to smile when your lips vibrated with a squeak against his before you melted just as you always did. It was something he’d never experienced till he’d begun kissing. How with just a gesture he seemed capable of wiping anything but the heady feeling of him and the sensations of him from your mind and leaving you with a relaxation that leeched into your marrow. He wants to stand he longer, press deeper, he can already feel your fingers beginning their spider walk over the sleeves of his jacket. If the squeak had been intoxication, the whine you release when he pulls away is torture.

“Well, that’s just not fair,” you huff, lacking any conviction and falling back against the seat with an almost dopey smile when he shuts the door, “Totally unfair,” he doesn’t have to hear you to know the words you’re tossing at him.

“One day I’ll explain to you what unfair is,” he said when he’d opened the door, slipping into the seat and getting the car started as he yanked the door closed and the belt over him, “And you’ll be apologizing to me.”

“Oh yeah. _That_ seems likely,” he shakes his head at your mocking tone, letting you lean forward and twist the volume up, “Does that _sound_ like something I’d do?”

“Don’t be a brat,” he laughs, reaching across the console to swat you playfully on your thigh, “Or I’ll have to make you.”

You rolled your eyes with a short shake of the head, before moving through the radio presets.

Steve doesn’t disappoint and orders his oversized tuna melt with fries _and_ onion rings. It never ceases to amaze you how much food he is capable of consuming but he might say the same about you with the triple layered club sandwich and your cheese, crouton, and ranch heavy side salad. You laugh and joke like always, though how overwhelmingly busy the small town restaurant is means you can’t sneak by with the same muted affection you’d first experienced here just a few nights ago. That doesn’t stop Steve, something that surprises you. There’s the want to muse on why he’s got his own leg twisted up with yours under the table but you choose to enjoy it instead. You’ve had enough of big bad reality and you’ll happily take what little of your perfect bubble you can get.

“I picked dinner,” he says slyly from across the table, you drop your fork in the bowl and groan, “So, what will we be watching this lovely evening, doll?” dragging an onion ring through the mountain of ketchup on his plate.

You stuff the bite into your mouth, with a little dramatized faux aggression, of course, while you scrunched up your brow. Chewing slowly, you eased into feigning thoughtfulness. It stretches his smile wider and wider, until you finally swallow and sigh overdramatically, throwing yourself back in the booth.

“Oh my _god_ ,” he chuckles, nudging you under the table with his knee, “You pull this on me all the time.”

“That’s my point. It’s _my_ trick,” you break, returning to a comfortable position with a shrug, “What if we didn’t watch a movie?” hoping you sounded as calm as you were forcing yourself to be.

Which you didn’t but he wasn’t about to point it out, “Now you wouldn’t be implying that we...” taking a sip off his soda with a lift of his brow.

You want to shrug again, instead you copy him with a sip of your own, “I just think it’s unfair to punish me for something that’s Bucky’s fault is all,” this is where you shrug, seeming almost confident when you reach across the table and snag a french fry.

“ _Ooo_ ,” he laughs, shaking his head and leaning back in the booth, crossing his arms across his chest in the way that makes your tongue unconsciously dart out to wet your lips, “You been holding that in since this morning?” you smile, prepping another bite on your fork, “What am I gonna do with you?”

“I’ve just told you,” you say as if it were the most obvious thing in the world before taking your mountainous bite with a loud crunch.

He looks at you, as if he’s considering. If the rolls were reversed you’d be doing the same yourself. Today has been odd, far too odd already and you’d understand if he just wanted to fall back into something normal for a little while. You had almost answered his question with whatever John Hughes movie had been prepared to pop into your head first. But it seemed worth the risk. There was something comforting about picking up with where you left off, something from before everything that was today had begun to leak in at the edges. The awkwardness, Peter, the confusion, you want to end the day exactly where you had begun it. But none of that mattered if he didn’t. You were sure you could find contentedness in that, you had grown used to taking refuge in even the smallest of moments. 

“I have a couple things I have to finish up,” it’s instinct at this point to roll your eyes but he manages to stop you, “They’ll just have to wait till tomorrow,” shooting a wink at you across the table, “But there’s something I wanna show you before we go home,” and returning to happily munching on his sandwich as if the conversation had never happened.

“Stay here,” his voice light but still stern and you slide deeper into the seat to illustrate that you’re more than happy to do whatever he says, “Promise?”

“I promise,” you laugh, lolling your head to meet his own pointed stare with your own, “You’ve already driven me an hour into the wilderness what’s five more minutes.”

He slid out of his seat and slammed the door, popping open the trunk just out of sight of the rearview. Which really put a crimp in your plan of trying to figure out what was going on. He shot you a wink in the mirror and he knew your face had to be heating up with how fast you returned to your “relaxed” position. Instead of focusing on all of today and it’s confusion, you’re distracted by the sudden awareness that this part of the evening might be the closest the two of you would ever get to a real date for the foreseeable future. That’s enough to keep your eyes on the trail you had driven down here. Steve had sworn it was a road but you’re sure for it to be considered a road it has to _actually_ be wider than the car, not forced that way. 

“Well, would you look at that smile,” his voice cut through the night’s silence as he opened the door. It might’ve made you jump if you weren’t too busy melting at the compliment, “Come on.”

You hit the seatbelt release, fighting briefly with the strap as it tangled itself up in the loose fabric of your flannel collar. Something that amused him greatly no matter how many times you exclaimed it wasn’t funny. It doesn’t stop you from falling into him when you climb out of the car, though you still give him a hard nudge to the ribs in hopes it’ll stop his chuckling. Mostly because he’s using his other hand to cover your eyes as he pulled you tighter against his side. His hand slips over your eyes and a part of you wants to ask what he’s doing but you know he has a plan in his mind. And Steve loved his plans. You did what he had no doubt planned on your doing, clinging to his jacket as you toed along the damp grass.

You expected him to say something when he pulled his hand away, but truthfully there wasn’t anything to be said. Standing on the outcropping cliff, the woods, the winding river, all you can see is stars. Not even the fading lights of the small town’s nights were visible. You can feel your jaw drop but you don’t have the awareness to close it, eyes moving slowly across all the stars. You don’t know that you could see something like this so close to home and you know you’ll be begging him to bring you back here as often as you can get away with but it would never be like this. 

“You’ve just had this in your utility belt the whole time?” trying to focus on being a person while simultaneously losing your breath all over again at the stars across the tree line, reminding you of Christmas. 

He shrugs, grin stretching across his face at your awe outweighing your need to be a smart ass, “I was waiting for a special occasion,” hand rubbing your bicep while dropping his cheek on the crown of your head, “Can you think of a more important one?”

From anyone else every part of this would be undeniably cheesy but this was all the stops. He’d taken his gal to dinner and now he’d parked you at a make out spot. Which meant no doubt somewhere behind you the camping blanket was laid out, waiting for you both to ease back onto it. You lift your head, forcing him to draw his head to lock your gazes. He looked so different in the starlight, not quite real. _Ethereal._ Every part of him seems to glow, the twinkling in those emerald greens could be the sky or entirely him, you’re not sure. Just that everything feels absolutely perfect. You can’t think of a more important moment so far than this one.

”I think this is where you kiss me.”


	7. be my baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> my such a sweet thing. i wanna do everything. what a beautiful feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the beginnings of the daddy kink. and some foreplay. hope you like it. sorry it’s late again. it’s been a tough week. it’s short but i think it’s worth it.... smut ahoy

He hadn’t made a move the entire time you spent stargazing. Sitting behind you on the blanket, chin on your shoulder, arms around your waist, and his legs spread on either side of you. He pointed out different constellations, something he had done passively when you had managed to sit in his presence long enough on camping trips. Now you were enthralled, surprised not only at how many there were but how much history there was. You’re trying your best to file the information away. But it’s a little hard to focus when his fingers rub your sternum through your baggy shirt, his lips pause every few minutes to press against your temple or cheek. A few stray times your neck. It feels normal. You’re not cooped up in the house, moving from room to room as if you were re-exploring them. It’s out, in the world, you’re free. And nothing changes. You feel exactly the same as you did that morning, you still mean what you said to him in the restaurant. And when he hums next to your ear, asking if you’re listening, you can’t help smiling and shaking your head as you curl back into him.

“I thought that might be the case,” he chuckled, the low sound vibrated through your body, filling you with a different type of warmth than that offered by his arms around you, “It’s probably for the best, pretty sure I was just rambling,” dropping a kiss to the curve of your jaw.

“Well, if it hasn’t been made clear enough, I could listen to you talk all night,” craning your head to press a kiss to his cheek.

“The couch, right,” angling his own head to brush his lips across yours, “I thought that might be a sign,” his tone ever so slightly teasing and making you lean at an angle to get a better view of him.

“Ya don’t think?” eyes wide with slight mocking.

He danced his fingers along your side lightly, it felt almost threatening when an uncontrollable laugh started to rise in your throat and it was beginning to become difficult to keep your body still. It stops just as quick as it starts only now his grin has fully split his face.

“Maybe you’ll think twice about being a brat now,” and you shook your head, for more reasons than you knew at the moment but the few you could consider had started to heat your face, “That’s me being nice.”

It sends a shock through your car, and you may not be ready to tell him why but you can at least allude to it’s existence, “We should head home,” fingers curling in the thick fabric of his jacket sleeves.

“Should we now?” he asked, his fingers at your waist begin to gather the fabric of your t-shirt between them as he lifted it higher and higher, “I like it here though,” his voice drops, pulling you back against him but now his lips drag along the column of your neck, “How about just a little longer?” calloused fingertips finally meet the electrified flesh along your ribs, he can feel how it makes your breath shudder, “It’ll be too cold soon.”

But you couldn’t argue. Not even if you tried. You hyper-fixate on how his other other hand moves down the newly exposed plain of your stomach, lower and lower until his thumb hooks in the ratty edge of your belt. His last words echo in your mind until the subtext finally clicks and the only noise you’re able to make is a muted squeak when his fingers work expertly at the flimsy metal buckle. 

Steve has thought about this. It hangs heavy in the air and there’s nothing that can be done to change that. But he can distract you both when he nips at the curve of your neck, harder and harder until you hiss before soothing it with his tongue and repeating the process. Your head lolls back against his shoulder, hands dropping to spread across his jean clad shins. The clanking of your undone belt echoes in your ears, you remember the nervous feeling from this morning but it’s been banished. As if the feeling had never existed and was some memory of a dream. The loose pants open easily and his hands dip beneath, groaning at the flimsy cotton barely covering your mound.

“Did you wear these just for me?” his voice husky as he traces the edges hung low on your hips and higher than usual on your thigh.

You run your tongue over your lips, trying fruitlessly to wet your dry lips, “Y-yes,” you stutter out, if only because disobedience requires more brain power than you are currently capable of.

His fingers tighten around your ribs, his teeth tug at your earlobe, “Yes...” voice leading, as if you had forgotten your manners.

Except you don’t know what you’re supposed to say, “Yes,” nothing quite makes sense and you’ve realized you’ve opened your mouth, either to scramble for words or at the barest pressure of his fingertips on your clothed slit, “ _Daddy_.”

You’re not given the opportunity to be mortified when the word twists off your tongue. His teasing teeth sink into the shell of your ear, you can feel his chest rumble, his fingers press hard, and it pushes the small crotch of your underwear between your lips entirely. It’s tight across your clit, his fingers finally where you’ve wanted them most makes you moan unabashedly into the night air.

“I forgot you like a little roughhousing, doll,” you’ve never heard his voice like this and it goes straight to your pussy, “You’re so wet,” it’s a new sensation, being this soaked, “This all for me?”

But so is being this needy, desperate for him to touch you more, “Mhm,” biting your lip, the tip of his finger strumming against your cloth strained clit, humming and gasping with each flick, “Fuck,” the profanity falls quietly from your lips, but you can feel the curl of his smile as his beard grazes the skin behind your ear.

“Next time, I’m gonna make you beg,” his voice an almost sing song, the threat feeling far more like something to look forward, “But I still owe my girl one.”

You remind yourself to thank whatever higher being may or may not exist later. It’s the last coherent thought you’re allowed because his fingers dip beneath your slick soaked underwear, stretching it tight over his knuckle as he rubbed back and forth against your clit. Your nails dig into the denim of his jeans, the rough fabric catching on your nails as you became desperate for anything to ground you. You’re still worked up from this morning, from dreams, and fantasies. You might’ve been embarrassed you were so close. If it were anyone else it would be. 

“Already?” he asks, his groan quiet but detectable all the same, his own walls are crumbling, “You’re _such_ a good girl,” the stress in his words cross your mind briefly.

He distracts you by slipping those two fingers inside you and crooking the tips of his fingers. Your lower half jerks but his steadfast arm around your waist keeps you right where he wants you. It’s a constant beat, in and out, brushing your g-spot with each thrust. You pant, moan, desperate for more friction, more of his touch, anything. One last push over the ledge. You’re desperate for it.

“‘m so close,” you manage to push out, even as your lungs burn for breaths you just can’t catch, “Please, daddy, please.”

There’s a power in that word. Later tonight, you plan on exploring it but for now it brings what you need. A quick drop. Your eyes shoot open, the stars seem to swirl around you.

“So tight.”

Electricity rockets through you. Bouncing from nerve to nerve and leaving bonfires in it’s wake.

“So pretty.”

You can feel those smoldering emerald’s tracing the curve of your lips, watching your teeth tug on it when you instinctively try to cover your scream and the sigh of relief when it tumbled from your throat. You can feel him pressing into the small of the back but it’s like you’re all that matters to him right now. Your being explodes and you lose all semblance of anything that isn’t him. His touch. His smell. The feel of his shorthairs scraping your oversensitive skin. How your pussy grips his fingers, how your body shakes and shudders at his touch, the bruises he’s left in your ribs. And you fall gently back to Earth.

He still assaults your sense, but his fingers move slowly, never stopping the pleasure that shocks your spine and makes your body jump. He finally abandons his hold on your waist to grip the back of your neck, making the uncomfortable angle his responsibility so he could devour you. He moves lazily inside of you while his tongue circles yours. You finally find the strength to move a hand, fingers dipping into the hair on the back of his neck.

“Let’s go home,” he grumbles, pressing a soft, lingering kiss at your hum of approval.


	8. i don't need your past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i can tell that you're new to this. slow it down but you can't resist. feed your fantasy, give yourself to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am in love with this song
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_knNYThfGOQ

You’re not virginal but it doesn’t mean you’re well practiced. And you’re thankful for the quiet drive home to clear your thoughts. Well, best you can manage because it doesn’t stop him from rubbing his fingers along your arm, your thigh, gripping your hand tightly. Your heart pounds in your chest and as much as you want this you are coming to terms with how entirely under prepared you are for it. He turns off the main road onto your long driveway, bringing your hand to his lips and pulling you back to reality with the beautiful scratch of his whiskers along the inside of your wrist.

“Be here with me,” he spoke softly, keeping a tight hold on the wrist even as the car bounced, his speed and the cracking pavement wasn’t much help, “Nowhere else, alright?”

You look at him through hooded eyes, nodding slowly as you came to a stop in front of the house, “I just...” chewing on your bottom lip nervously, “I’m not _exactly_...” you hated how embarrassing it felt, it’s not like there was anything wrong with it. But it still made your cheeks hot and words difficult.

“You are exactly everything you need to be, alright?” tugging you over the console as he leaned to meet you, “And everything you are is exactly what I want.”

He knows you well enough to know it’s best to cut you off but now he has the ability to do it with his lips. He needs you to know you have nothing to worry about, that he hadn’t been able to keep his hands off you for a reason. His tongue drags along your lower lip, remembering how the plan had been just to stargaze and then... You hummed, fingers twisting to grip the edge of his sleeves, your other hand doing a bad job at keeping you balanced as you leaned farther and farther into him.

“We should go inside,” you mumble against his lips, stretching his smile wider.

“That is _exactly_ what we should do,” he agrees, both of you undoing your seatbelts and climbing out of the car fast as either of you were capable of. 

He wraps his arm around you, unlocking the front door, and letting you step in first. You make a big show of taking off your shoes, your jacket slips off. He shuts the door slowly slipping off his jacket, toeing off his shoes, expecting to follow you with his gaze and instead finding you glued to the spot in the entryway. Your fingers curl in the hem of your t-shirt, pulling it over your head and tossing it towards the bannister. Your chest stuttering with nervous breaths when you turned back to face him completely. He steps forward, looking down at you with unreadable eyes while you tried to create some rhythm with your breathing. 

“When I thought about this,” he starts, his index finger hooking around the fabric between the two cups of your demi, “And I thought about this _a lot_ , _I_ took off _your_ clothes.”

You angle your body towards the piece of fabric, “I could-”

“No,” tugging you against him, “ _You could not_ ,” voice heavy and eyes dark.

Everything shifted, just as it had on that cliff side. Steve knows where you stand, what you’re feeling, that’s enough. But taking control comes with something else, that part of him that had drug the word _daddy_ from your lips with a need you had never considered saying the word with. But it feels right, when his fingers curl around the back of your neck and his lips meet yours desperately. Rubbing your chin and cheeks perfectly raw as he pushed you deeper into the house. There’s no doubt where he’s taking you. The place that only you share. The first place that had ever become _yours_. You work at the buttons of his shirt, ripping it desperately from his belted slacks and letting it flutter to the floor. Your hips jerk when his fingers tug at the button of your jeans, pressing your back against the freezing door, they fall with no effort, pooled around your thin socks. 

“I got you, baby girl,” his voice a deep rasp, sending shivers dancing down your spine and fire straight between your thighs, “I got you,” his lips a smirk against your skin before they pressed softly against the column of your throat.

You hum, not trusting your voice or the awkward agreement you know you would push out if you managed words at all. Which is enough for him. The door disappears behind you but you can’t recall his hands ever leaving your body, or had you been too preoccupied with his gentle lavishing of your neck and fighting to find the hem of his undershirt. You don’t need him to lead you, you’ve made this walk hundreds of times, half awake, half aware, desperate in a way that had seemed like a predecessor to all this. Your calves hitting the cool leather came with the disappearance of his lips and pulls a whine from that deep place inside you were beginning to discover was so desperate for him and his touch. 

“Hey,” how is voice slips between gritty and oh so gentle had always made your head spin but you’re dizzy in all the best ways now, “Where’d you go?”

You smile, tugging the undershirt over his head and realizing that was a terrible idea if you had wanted to give him a straight answer, “I’m here, I am,” you whisper, each word seeming to catch when your palms pressed into the broad expanse of his chest, soft hairs beneath your palms.

“Are you now?” quirking his brow in that way that always meant he knew better, or that trouble was just around the corner, “Prove it, doll,” you’re thankful it’s the latter. 

It’s the only thing you can think of, a second of confidence you refuse to let pass you by, if only to have the upper hand for a minute. The sound of under wire louder then it’s ever been in your ears and immediately driven out by the almost growl that vibrates his chest. Everything about him isn’t just dark anymore it’s hungry. You don’t remember how you ended up in his lap on the couch just that you were, fingers fighting at the buckle of his belt with earnest. He chuckles, thumb brushing a straining nipple, lips capturing yours again when you’d finally managed it open it with shaking fingers. You don’t ever remember your body being this sensitive but the sensation of his own attentions stop your hands, body threatening to go entirely limp in his arms when he pinches the nub between his thumb and forefinger.

“All you gotta do is say it, baby girl,” he’s begging you to beg him, you really wish you could but you’re almost positive every word you know has disappeared from your mind, “I know you can do it,” ducking his head so quickly all you manage is to get your fingers in his hair, your tug feeble when he wraps his lips around your other nipple and making you gasp, “It’s just one word,” his beard scraping your irresponsibly receptive nerve endings, teeth tugging and forcing your grip on his hair to tighten and your hips to buck against his ignored and straining zipper, “ _Please_.”

You didn’t know begging could sound so good, the words sending a rush through you, soaking your already damp panties. You’re trying to grab onto it. You know the word, you’re sure you do. But it’s so hard. He tugs hard, your mouth falls open, fingers knotted and breath coming in pants. It’s never been like this. Nothing has _ever_ been like this. You force yourself to focus, just a second, remembering the word and how exactly it’s supposed to sound falling from your lips. 

“ _Daddy_ ,” it’s barely a breath, stolen from you by his lips, his teeth tugging on your bottom lip, his hand forcing the crotch of your panties to the side and dipping between your drenched lips, “ _Fu-uck,_ ” his fingers pressing into your already abused clit, “Fuck, Daddy, please!” and you don’t know what you’re asking for. 

“There you go,” he groans, teeth tugging on the skin of your neck as his fingers slipped lower, “Just when I think you can’t get any wetter,” his two fingers slipping into you easily.

Falling limp against his chest you finally realize where his other hand has been when the straining head of his cock brushes your clit. Your spine arches, fingers digging into the jut of his hips, the hair on his face sparking every nerve when he buries himself in the curve of your neck. You’re sure he had more plans of how to beautifully assault your nerves. But you’ve undone him in a way you had never imagined you could do to anyone, let alone him. His fingers disappear and your nails dig into him.

“ _Please_ ,” a broken whine that can’t be helped.

He’s firm but gentle. Guiding just the head of himself into you and beginning the slow and beautiful task of slipping inside you inch by dragging inch. He holds your weight, watching your face with furrowed brows and tugging his lip between his teeth. You pant and groan, your volume growing higher, each sound seeming more primal the deeper he slipped inside you. Stretching you so perfect, it hurts in all the best way. You wish he could see the stars exploding in front of your eyes the way you could. Every time you buck your hips desperate for more, he holds you still, hushing you until he’s sure you’ll stop arguing at least for a bit longer. It’s like he’s pushed all the air from your body when he settles fully inside you with long moan of his own. Bumping every nerve inside you, building pressure you had never even dreamed of. You want so many things, _everything_ , but you but you just repeat those three words, dotted with sounds that darken his eyes each time they’re ripped from your throat. 

“You here, baby girl?” somewhere between a breathless laugh and true worry.

You licked your lips, forcing yourself up, “Uh- _huh_ ,” pitch shooting upward as the angle shifted, his head brushing against your cervix and making your breath hitch, “’m here,” doing your best to focus when you’re desperate for friction, for more, _for him, “_ Promise,” dragging a mangled X across his chest with your fingertip.

You’re sure your hips will bruise with how tight he holds them, lifting you as angled himself backward, you help best you can with wobbly knees and hands on his chest. He buries himself in you again, and again. Your whimper quickly becomes a scream, your nails digging into his chest, his assault on your senses tensing your muscles and making your desperate for movement. For more. Anything to stop this tightening coil in your stomach, it feels never ending, a black pit.

The pendulum swung. Whether it was his the way his hip began to ache, easing his movement, or how your hands gripped his shoulders, but it had quickly become you riding him. Grinding up against him with each pull upward, forcing a desperate groan from him each time, and you’re so close you can taste it. You need something more and it’s driving you crazy you don’t know what it is. You push faster, deeper, until you’re sure everything from the waist down will ache in all the best ways tomorrow. His eyes are always on you, his hands always on your skin, his lips never far from your own. But it’s still not enough.

“What do you need?” but knows, his own desperation leaking in at the edge of his words, “Tell me what you need, sweetheart?”

“More,” it’s the newest word you can form, coming out as a mewl when he re-angled his hips, “Please. Need-” the rest of your words lost in panting gasps when he pulls you close, driving up into you and forcing a scream from the deepest parts of yourself.

He knew exactly what more meant, even if you didn’t. Holding you close, muttering praise, trying to climb back into your skin. But it’s just his hands and his voice, the feeling of him stretching you over and over again. It seems to come from outside your body. Whether it’s the scrape of his beard on your skin, or the way he says _good girl_ behind gritted teeth. Everything snaps, a broken sob clambers from you as your entire being seems to shatter and is put back together at the same time.

“ _Fuck!”_ your heartbeat in your ears muffles his cry but it’s unmistakable, somewhere between bliss and disappointment, “So fucking _tight.”_

The upward drive of his hips are harsher, uncoordinated, and pushing you farther into the beautiful moment. You can see stars and feel every nerve, and you’re absolutely sure in this moment you can absorb his entire being into you. If only through sheer force of will. You manage enough awareness to kiss him, sloppy, messy, full of need and he pulls you tighter to him than ever. It doesn’t matter that everything aches, that your body is holding itself together with hasty stitches, you need more of him. _All of him_.

“I'm yours,” he hums against your lips, hands rubbing your back as your hips undulated of their own accord, “I’m not going anywhere.”

That seems to be the permission your body needs to finally float back to Earth, humming and dropping your chin to his shoulder. Your walls flutter around his half hard cock still seated fully inside you, his hips twitch of their own accord, but it’s nothing more. Just holding each other, as difficult as sweat and leather made it, and it’s so undeniably perfect that for a moment you’re absolutely sure it has to be a dream.

“Next time, bed,” gripping the back of your neck and moving your limp body as he had done so many times this evening, but this is tender, “I’m getting too old to be messing around on a couch,” it’s for you, this is real, _you’re here_ , “You here?”

You nodded, “Yeah,” believing the answer more than any other time before, “Just a little hard to focus,” combing your fingers through his hair.

He raised his eyebrows, a smile curling his lips, “Oh, believe me you don’t know distracted, baby girl.”


End file.
